And If
by amphigory
Summary: . introspective . hikakao . "Families separate," he argues. And his brother smoothly laughs and forms a reply – do they always? – but in the darkness somehow the words are lost.


_notes_ » Thank you so much for deciding to read this. It's just a little, insignificant thing, but as it's my first submission I'm really unsure about it, haha. So please critique gently, if you decide to do so at all. xD

_warnings _» Barely-spoilers for Chapters 62 and 63. Attempts at making Hikaru attempt to be meaningful. (Ambitious first project, I believe. That's why I put this in Warnings, not in Notes. Ahaha.)

_disclaimer _» I've never claimed ownership of Ouran. Out loud. So to speak.

* * *

_a n d . i f_

* * *

Hikaru doesn't like the family metaphor, not for the pristine image of perfect synchronicity that it conveys, nor for the attempt of its creator to exaggerate what is clearly already there.

He doesn't even dislike it for the whimsical, romantic fantasy, for the mass-produced fairytale endings.

No, he dislikes it because he dislikes unreal, inaccurate things, events with no explanation. He likes substance and mathematical logic, pure and simple truth.

He doesn't like it because it can never be.

xXx

"Tono," he says sharply, one day that they happen to be sitting within speaking distance of each other. "We're not a family."

The bluntness of the statement comes as a surprise, he knows. "But supposing that I _am_ Haruhi's father—"

"You're not Haruhi's father."

"But supposing that I _resemble_ Haruhi's father—"

"Obviously you're aware that resembling and being are two different things, and who decided _that_ was the question?" he says quickly, digressing. And he's certain Tamaki has no idea what he's getting at, so he blurts out, suddenly, as if he's put far too much energy into thinking about it already, "I don't _want _us to be a family!"

He is met with only dead, reverberating silence.

Families, he thinks, don't require any effort. Parents can leave their children alone and expect everything to be the same when they return.

His parents don't waste time in trying to tell their children apart because they still hold dear the fact that it should be instinctive by now, because a family is a family and nobody can change that.

Not even them.

He believes that a family cannot change itself, not alone, and he has never been changed so much before now, not like this.

"You may not think it matters, but it does," he says, idly aware that his senior is still staring away with a vacant, discouraged expression.

"What does?"

"Hit-and-miss," he says, and Tamaki turns to face him with an expression of surprise. "Because it means you're still trying."

And thinking of this reminds him of a game of two overturned cups, one empty, and one with a prize hidden beneath it. He knows that, logically, the probability of selecting the correct cup increases with the closeness at which you watch the cups spin and twirl around each other, a mesmerizing and dizzying array of white.

So he pushes on. "Mother has always been partial to games," he says, the statement sounding oddly disjointed and unrelated, "but only when we ask. And even then, her accuracy has always been fifty-fifty."

Fifty-fifty, he knows, is the probability of winning without having watched any other part of the game at all. It is a shot in the dark; laugh a little and shrug when you lose, laugh a little and call it luck when you win.

"So, really," he concludes, turning away from the piercing gaze, a long motion that accentuates the white space between them, "it matters. It does." Because it means something to them that no one has ever put in this kind of an effort before. Not for them.

"For once," he breathes out, a slow and regulated exhale, "just look at us. Not the family."

Tamaki has been told this once before, he realizes, thinking that it must be a pertinent thought to wager being mentioned a second time. "Tell me what I'm missing," he says, and it comes out heavy and pleading, open and unsure.

Hikaru laughs at him unexpectedly. "It's certain, I know," he says with a glance upwards, "that I'm the bigger idiot. So think about it on your own." Before Tamaki can start to argue with him, he continues briskly, "I'll tell you what I think I know, though."

"What's that?"

"Families separate," he says slowly, and Tamaki is still watching him very closely. "They argue. Everyone will leave home eventually, you know. And maybe that's okay with you, but we don't—" He doesn't know what will happen to them when that happens, so he doesn't think about it, not ever.

For the first time, it occurs to Tamaki that he's not the only one who worries about them.

"And it can't end here, not like this. It can't. Besides, if we're such a family, and families separate thei—from their children, then… what…?" Tamaki has caught the error, and he knows it. So he stands up quickly and strides off without another word.

They can't be a family.

Because he likes to think they are better than that.

xXx

Tamaki probably thought they'd appreciate the family metaphor for its resemblance to them, he thinks; they are the only things that matter in their perfectly-balanced existence, an idealized, exclusive parallel.

However, he is wrong, as Hikaru has always thought of his brother of being on a different plane entirely, outside of family or life or the universe. Tamaki doesn't realize it, but he has always been on a separate plane as well.

Kaoru is most certainly aware of the fact that he doesn't qualify as family, though it always sounds like backwards logic to them. It's because family represents those who play the game over and over and over only because they feel some moral obligation to do so, because it's written away in some sacred contract.

And he realizes that he and his brother have won the game from the start only by default, an unfair advantage, but some things simply cannot be changed.

What matters is that family, who _should_ be winning the game, have always held the poorer average, and don't realize what they are stealing away every time they lose.

And it's not that he doesn't love his mother and father, no, for it's difficult to not love the people who gave you absolutely everything you have, including your brother. He cannot think of a more significant reason to be grateful to his parents.

He knows that his parents love him dearly, too, in a familiar but distant way. He relates it to the maid who became too close to them, eventually deciding the game was not worth the time or the effort, and cheating.

The worst part of it is that they are no longer like the game at all.

"The one to my left is Kaoru," she guesses, pointing to the twin with the darker hair, quite sure that _this time_, for sure, will be the one that they try to fool her.

And he falters, for a moment, trying to recall whether or not she was supposed to be right this time. "You're right," he says, smiling widely, and meets the same gaze with the same smile, as always.

"You're right." A quiet echo, silent encouragement, and he wants to run away.

Fifty-fifty.

Tamaki is wrong, he thinks, because he is nothing like that. Not like family.

Not ever.

xXx

"Hikaru, tell me what it feels like to be separated," he says, undertones of concern and curiosity lacing the edges of his voice.

He stops and says slowly, "Imagine surviving a disaster," and Tamaki does. "The morning after, nothing is the same. The whole world looks different. You're breathing different air. The sky has changed colour." The words are choppy and restrained.

It doesn't come to Tamaki until much later, an oddly painful sensation that causes him to sit up abruptly and take several deep breaths, alone.

The survivors of natural disasters often wish they had died with the others.

xXx

To Tamaki, _family_ means people who can think of absolutely nothing but each other. Families are those who hold on to each other through thick and thin and come out on top by sheer virtue of having done it together.

Surely, he thinks, Hikaru can understand this concept.

"Mother and I are very close," he says, smiling, "though I haven't seen her in many years."

"How can you be so close, then?"

And he laughs smoothly, a quiet sound that becomes louder and continues to echo in his mind long after it has melted into the marble.

"I think of her always."

He walks away, leaving Hikaru with something stinging in the back of his eyes and quite a lot to think about.

xXx

"Kaoru," he says, and the words are heavy in the air around them, "this whole family thing is a dumb move, right?"

"What do you think?" he asks, only half paying attention, and Hikaru, for a moment, thinks he's already answered that question, so he says nothing to break the lingering silence. "Tell me, then," he breathes. "What do you think _this_ is?"

_This,_ he knows; what they've never done and always done all at once.

But he has no more words and his brother answers his own question, "Tearing down barriers that really should be there." And it's not about wanting, or not wanting, but the truth.

Hikaru blinks.

"And what do you think Tono is doing?"

He automatically knows the answer is _building unnecessary barriers, _knows it because it's familiar, knows it because they once did the same thing, the precise same thing; it is practically unrecognizable in another context.

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, right?" Kaoru presses.

"Families separate," he argues.

And his brother smoothly laughs and forms a reply – _do they always?_ – but in the darkness somehow the words are lost.

* * *

_a/n _» Um, well. As I finish writing this, I feel that the ending's a little open-ended. When I started writing it, it's not what I was expecting at all. xD The angsty parts turned out angstier than I expected, and the light-hearted parts turned out more light-hearted than I expected – does that make it bipolar?

All in all, that took far too long.

Thanks so much for reading! :3 (Like I said, since this is my first submission here, any and all criticism is welcomed!)


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